


Friction, Baby

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [52]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 22:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: part of theLive By The Sword ‘verse.This piece is told in two different time periods; the first, before the events inA Perfect Circle,and the second, some time after the events inThe Devil I Know.The not so distant future.  One cop, one crimelord.





	Friction, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 2005, edited 2018. Title/lyric inspiration from Better Than Ezra's album of the same name.
> 
> Arthur and Lance go through several incarnations of a relationship; at the beginning of this story, they have fought multiple times about Lance's father/family and what they'll expect Lance to do once Roland dies, and also about the fact that Arthur chose to be a policeman without consulting Lance first. Arthur's broken up with Lance once or twice before this piece, and they discuss it at length here. The arguments and the breaks ups are also what forces Lance's hand (so he believes) here, as his pride and wounded heart can't take more than he's already dealt with. 
> 
> I wrote this series out of order, and always had ideas for how it would go once I really got into it. If it doesn't make sense, I'm sorry about that. Trust me when I say it will at some point. All pieces for this series are posted on my LiveJournal, but I'm editing them for AO3 and hope they sound better with a fresh perspective.

**One**.

“Cadet Arthur Castus.”

Thunderous applause shook the room as Arthur crossed the stage, his face flushed at being singled out.  He took the offered plastic chip with his credentials imprinted on it from the academy dean, shaking the man’s hand as he announced Arthur’s standing in the class and all his special permits.  Arthur kept his face smooth, despite the attention, and smiled quickly. “Congratulations, son,” the man said quietly before moving on to the next person.  “Your father would have been proud.”

Arthur nodded seriously, and stared forward as the dean continued on down the row.

“Castus!  Wooo hooo!” came from the stands; his wince was visible as he scrambled off the stage and away from the spotlight.

*

The families of the other academy graduates swirled around him, and Arthur had to leap aside a few times to avoid getting his boots stomped on.  A smile cracked his solemn demeanor as he caught sight of his guests.

“Look at you,” Gwen sighed, “beautiful.”  She hugged him tightly, and he responded, lifting her short frame off the ground.  She laughed, her hair swinging with the movements.  Arthur put her down, and she backed out of his embrace, looking him up and down.  She shook her head.  “Uniform and all.  I told you you cleaned up nicely.”

He grinned and tipped his hat at her.  She rolled her eyes, and walked past him toward the bar the academy had set up.  Squeezing his hand, she whispered in his ear.  “I’ll give you a few minutes alone – but you scream if he starts being an ass.”  Arthur smiled back at her, but it was a nervous smile this time.  He turned and faced the man that Gwen had been gesturing to.

A low whistle made it’s way out of Lancelot’s mouth.  One elegantly arched eyebrow rose to his hairline.  “Wow.”

All of the graduates wore the same thing; dark blue uniform, crisply ironed, regulation LAPD cap, and their newly issued badge.  Arthur felt like an overstuffed penguin, but he decided quietly that it had been worth it to get that kind of reaction from the other man.  His face pinked slightly, but he ignored it in favor of sticking out his hand.  Lance just stared at him.  “You’re kidding, right?” he said, his face darkening.  “Come on, Arthur.  This is a banner day.  Come here.”

Arthur moved stiffly so he was in front of Lance, and slowly hugged the other man.  They were both awkward at first, but Arthur shut his eyes and tried to forget the fights, and the uncomfortable, tension filled nights they had been experiencing.  As he concentrated on just breathing, he began to relax, taking a deep whiff of Lancelot, and Arthur's arms tightened around him.  A small noise came out of Lance, and his hands squeezed at Arthur’s back, his mouth brushing Arthur’s ear quickly.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said so quietly Arthur had to strain to hear it.  Then they were apart, and Arthur felt like he needed a sweater.  The sun went behind a cloud, and he shuffled his feet, eyes on the ground.  “I’m glad you two made it,” he commented finally, looking up again.

Lance was watching him, arms crossed.  “I wouldn’t miss it,” he answered honestly, then smirked, covering his sincere emotions with humor.  “Besides, I think Gwen would have dragged me here regardless.”

“Nice to know I have your support,” Arthur grumbled, then sighed.  “I’m not … I don’t want to fight.  Come on,” he said to the other man.  “Let’s go have a drink at least.”

*

Arthur unlocked the loft, and flipped the lights on.  It was echoey and weirdly empty feeling.  He shook his head; it _was_ empty, except for him.  It had been empty for a while now.  God damn the Benoits.  And god damn Lancelot for doing what they said.

Arthur tossed his cap and badge on the couch, and went to the kitchen, found a beer in the fridge, popped the top off, and drank most of it in a few slugs.  Grabbing another, he crossed to the large window, where he stepped through and went out onto the balcony.  The whine of helicopters and the occasional popping sound of gunfire reached his ears; he was up high enough to not worry about it.  He leaned onto the railing, staring out at the scenery, wind whipping his hair around his face.  His uniform felt starched and stiff, but he didn’t have the heart to go take it off.

He drained off half the bottle quickly, then raised it to the sky.  “Wish you were here, dad,” he said quietly, “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”  Taking another drink, he almost choked when a hand touched his shoulder.  He dropped the bottle; it shattered at his feet, soaking his uniform pants. 

“Fuck!” he cursed, and bent over, brushing the pieces of glass off.  “Couldn’t you knock?”

“Why should I when you go and do something that entertaining?” Lance replied, smirking.  “Besides, _you_ gave me a key, remember?”  Arthur did, but he didn’t answer.  He stalked back into the loft, unbuckling his belt, then unlacing his boots.  He kicked them off angrily, the trousers following quickly.  His shirt hanging over his boxers, he stomped back into the kitchen.  Jerking open the fridge, he removed another beer and popped the cap with his thumb, a tad violently, his skin tearing slightly.

Lancelot followed.  “You sure you should be drinking so much?” he commented helpfully.  Arthur snarled at him, then took a large gulp of his beer.  “Did you come here to insult me?  Or did you have a reason?”

Lancelot opened his mouth, then shut it.  He pinched his lips together, then looked down, scrubbing a hand through his longish hair.  “Sorry.” 

Arthur just shook his head, drinking a good portion of his beer in one swallow.  “For what?  Scaring me?  Making me drop my drink on my clothing?  Being an asshole?”

Lance’s face compressed, his eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth turning white.  “Well, you’re being all honest tonight.  What’s the occasion?”

Arthur slowed the drinking somewhat in response to Lance’s words, then realized what he was doing – and fought his knee-jerk reaction.  Just to spite the other man, and perhaps himself, he took another swallow.  “No occasion.  Just me trying to ‘loosen up’.  Don’t you always want me to do that?  Don’t I need to get rid of that stick up my ass?”

Lancelot laughed harshly, then rubbed at his face.  “Damn, Arthur.  If I had known a few beers would make you this sincere I would have gotten you drunk a long time ago.” 

Arthur put down his half finished beer, and crossed his arms.  He wasn’t feeling that great – his vision was fuzzy, and his stomach was protesting the quick intake of so much alcohol.  “You have.  Not a few times.  But I seem to recall you weren’t too interested in talking then.” 

Lancelot made a snorting sound, and rested one hand on his hip.  “I never needed to get you drunk for you to fuck me, Arthur."  His mouth twisted and Arthur suddenly wanted to punch the other man in his face, wiping that smarmy expression off the angles and planes that could cut so easily.  Arthur flushed, and his hands began to clench.  “You kissed me first, you asshole.  You made me love you!”  The words left his mouth with burning speed, and he wanted to suck them back in immediately.  But it was too late, and he wouldn’t apologize.  Not this time.  He pushed off the counter and stumbled slightly toward the couch. 

“God damn you, Arthur.”   Lance followed him, face thunderous and shoes beating on the floor so hard Arthur was sure they would leave marks.  Arthur plopped down on the couch, and stared blearily at Lance, who was fuming, arms at his sides, chest heaving in rage.  “What do you want from me?  The perfect relationship?  Because there’s no such thing.”

“What ‘relationship’?” Arthur asked, laughing.  “You mean that thing we have now, where we fight, then fuck and try to forget all the bad shit?  Lance, you’re deluding yourself.  There’s no way for this to work.  We’ve said it before – and now with Roland sick – how long do you think it’ll be before they want you to step up?”

Lancelot shoved the coffee table out of the way angrily, and crouched in front of Arthur, who was balancing his head in his hands.  “You’ve known about my family forever, Arthur.  You know what they can do to us – to you – if they so choose.  I have no choice.”  His voice dropped, and he dragged Arthur’s hands away from his face.  “I can’t face _anything_ if something happened to you because of me, or because of them.”

Lancelot blew out a deep breath, then continued.  “I may have made you love me, but you never had to make me love you.  That was inevitable, and easy.”

Arthur’s face crumpled, and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose.  He had no real response for that.  No response that was worthy.

“Lance,” he said tiredly, “this is the same old argument we’ve had for years.  Years.  Nothing will change unless you choose to make it change.  I can’t live your life for you – I would if I could, in a heartbeat.  I’d take every burden, every pain, every moment you’ve had that hurt you, and I’d live it for you, because I do love you that much,” he continued, hands reaching for then grasping Lance’s.  “But I can’t.  And I have to live my own life in such a way that satisfies me.”

He felt slightly dizzy, and dismissed it as too much alcohol too fast.  “I didn’t – I didn’t mean to abandon you,” he whispered, his voice taking on a broken tone that he couldn’t stop.  “I just couldn’t do it anymore.  I couldn’t see you all the time, see you becoming like them, changing for them, becoming someone you’re not.  Someone I know you’re not.  I’ve seen you, Lance, I’ve seen the inside of you.  And it’s not this ugly, brittle thing your father wants to turn you into.  It’s kind, and generous, and funny.  And you have so much promise!  I just wish you could see it – I wish you could see past him to what I see in you.”

Lance’s hands shook in Arthur’s, his face reflecting a myriad of expressions so quickly Arthur wasn’t sure what the other man was feeling.  He waited quietly, feeling drunk.  He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, then stopped because it didn’t help.

“I – I have to go,” Lance said suddenly, standing jerkily.  Arthur rose after him as Lance made for the front door quickly.  “Lancelot, wait,” Arthur called, tripping over the edge of the sofa as he followed.  He reached Lance as the other man turned the door knob, and the night air washed in over them, sobering Arthur slightly.  He put his hand on Lance’s shoulder.

“Arthur, please, I just can’t,” the other man said quietly, his voice tattered and sibilant and Arthur shuddered without meaning to.  The tone of Lance's words was like nothing Arthur had ever heard before, and he swallowed heavily, sick to his stomach, and pushed on Lance’s shoulder, which forced him to turn a bit, his face in Arthur’s line of sight.  Arthur’s gut twisted at the wetness on Lance’s face, and he opened his mouth to apologize, when Lance took his hand, placing something in it.

“I have to go,” Lance repeated, and was gone before Arthur could say anything.

Arthur shut the door slowly, and looked at the thing in his hand.   The key glittered in the light from the hall.  Arthur examined it, turning it over as if it was something he’d never seen before. 

He stood there immobile for quite a while, unable to put the key down, and unwilling to hope for anything more.

 

 **Two**.

 

“Captain?”

Arthur looked up, happy to get his head out of the paperwork he’d been focusing on for more than two hours.  “Yes?.”

“There’s someone here to see you, sir.”  The tall cop with the bald head stared impassively at Arthur, who tried to drege up the man’s name from his memory.  “Ah, thank you, Dagonet?”  He sighed inwardly when the man nodded.  “You can send them in.”  Arthur straightened what he thought was a mess on his desk, and stood at the knock on his door.  “Come in,” he called out, and looked up to see the last person he ever expected to see in his office.

“Gwen,” he almost stuttered.  “How – it’s good to see you.”  Lancelot’s sister shut the door behind her, and looked at the chair in front of Arthur’s desk.  “Oh, sorry,” he said hastily, “please, sit.”  She did, and looked around the room.  “It certainly looks like you decorated it,” she commented dryly, then made her tone better by smiling at him.  “Hello, sweetie.  I’m glad to see you, too.  You look good.  Skinny.”

Arthur ran a hand self consciously over his shirt, and sat as well.  “So do you – look good, I mean.  When did you cut your hair?”  She touched it; the sleek brunette cut suited her, but Arthur still remembered her as the young girl in college, her clothing and mannerisms very relaxed.  This woman was almost the direct opposite of that girl.

“A year ago.  It’s been a while, Arthur.”

A tiny smile touched the corner of his mouth.  “Yes.  So – how are you?”  He wanted to ask about - but he shut his mouth and smiled expectantly at Gwen, gladder to see her than he'd ever admit to her face.  She was still examining the room, her hands folded on her purse, the long perfectly manicured nails gleaming red.  Arthur noticed a rock on her finger that probably cost more than his annual income, but didn’t mention it.  He had read about her engagement in the papers.

“Well.  I’m getting married,” she commented.  He nodded.  “I saw in the paper.  Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”  They were quiet, and Arthur suddenly wondered just what in the hell she wanted with him.  He opened his mouth to ask, and she spoke.

“My brother’s all right, in case you were wondering,” she said calmly, and Arthur’s insides jumped at the words.  He hadn’t even allowed himself to think of Lance in a long while – and his body reacted the way he had expected when the other man was mentioned.  He nodded again stiffly.  “Good.”

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” Gwen added.  Arthur released a sharp breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  “Well, yes,” he admitted.  “It has been a while since we’ve been sociable.  Is there something I can do for you?”  She smiled at him, and for a moment he could see the college girl he had known.  The ruby lips straightened out, and she was gone.  “Arthur – I know you probably don’t want to hear this,” Gwen started, and sat forward.  Arthur waited, a bad feeling settling on him that he knew what she was going to say.  But he kept silent, gesturing for her to continue.

“I want you to see him.”

Arthur’s eyebrows pulled together, the lines between them deepening.  “Why?”  His fingers wrapped together without his say so, and when he noticed it, he jerked them apart, almost guiltily.    “Because,” she sighed, “I know my brother, Arthur.  And this person, this man that’s walking around in his skin?  It isn’t him.  And I truly do think – I know – that if he saw you, if he could talk to you again, even just for a minute-“

“Gwen.  You can’t know what you’re asking,” Arthur said, his voice quiet, even though the door was shut.  Just hearing Lance's name made him edgy – and a sudden rush of misery sank his mood even lower than it had been before.

“I do – at least I think I do,” she replied quickly, trying to convince him before he could make up his mind to the contrary.  “I know at least how much he loves, loved you.  He’s not even in there, Arthur.  His eyes aren’t the same.  It scares me.”  Arthur steepled his fingers in order to keep from picking at his cuticles, and rested them under his chin so Gwen wouldn’t notice them trembling slightly.   He had kept himself purposefully divorced from any kind of contact or word on either of them, only occasionally checking the paper for news on Lance, which he told himself was for work purposes.  Unfortunately it was usually something about his family getting busted for this or that, or speculation about the racketeering and murders they might or might not be involved in.  Each time he read anything like that, Arthur had to swallow Zantac for a week before his stomach would calm down.

 “Gwen – I don’t know that he would listen to me.  It’s been a long time.  And to be honest, I don’t know what I’d say.”

Her face showed a brief flash of pain, then smoothed into the mask she was apparently getting good at wearing.  “Arthur.  For old times’ sake,” she asked softly, her hands clutching together a mockery of his own.  “If not for him, then for me.  I know you and I were never as close as the two of you,” she hesitated, her gaze dropping, “but I always adored you, and thought he treated you poorly – but I never really understood until recently just how much you meant to him.  It’s like he’s broken.”  Arthur’s eyes slid shut, and he lowered his own head, laying his hands loosely on the arms of his chair.

Dignity?  Loyalty?  Friendship?  What did he owe Lance?

Love.

_No matter what happens between us, I’ll always love you._

Arthur had repeated that mantra to Lance like a prayer too many times to count – and his head snapped back up as he thought on it, and the implications behind the statement.  He was a man of his word.  He always would be – he was raised to prize honor and loyalty – but more importantly, without Lance around, it was like the sun didn't rise in the right spot every day, or the water flowed the wrong direction at the beach, or his bed was too big, or the coffee he made at home was too much.

 _Fuck_.

“I’ll try, Gwen.  If he doesn’t want to see me there’s not much I can do.  That’s the best I can offer.”

Gwen’s solemn face broke into a huge smile, which made Arthur twitch guiltily.  He should have at least stayed in contact with her.  “Oh, Arthur, thank you,” she said, jumping up from the chair, hugging him as he sat stock still, thinking of the lack of wisdom in what he had just promised.  “He’ll see you, I’m sure.  Here,” she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes, going to her purse and retrieving a business card.  “It’s the private line.  He keeps having it changed – doesn’t want the pol-  I mean, he doesn’t want just anyone to be able to get a hold of him.”  Arthur took the card and stood, ready to have this awkward meeting over with.  He opened his door, and Gwen stopped for a moment as she passed by him.

“If you need anything,” she told him.  He nodded.  “Thank you,” he answered woodenly.  “I’ll be in touch.”

She smiled brightly at him again, suddenly grabbing his arms and pulling him into a hug again.  He blinked rapidly, her smell and her touch forcing memories to the surface that made him nauseated and lonely, more lonely than he'd been in a long time.  She might not be her brother, but she was a Benoit, and his eyes closed briefly, smiling at her woodenly when she pulled away, touching his face once.  She clacked off down the hall, most of the men in the outer offices craning their necks to watch.

“Captain, why’d you keep that one a secret?” one of them asked, a wolf whistle sounding. 

“Zip it,” Arthur barked.  “Don’t you all have paperwork?”  He glared at them with darkened eyes, and slammed his door shut.  He crossed back to his desk, gut burning, and sat, pressing his thighs together to stop them from shaking.  God.  Even a few words about the other man sent him into a quivering wreck. 

“Fuck,” he said angrily, and picked up the business card, and the phone.

*

Arthur tapped his foot, and checked his watch again.  Two train changes and an hour away from his loft, and still no sign of Lance.  He would give him five more – ah.  The familiar Thunderbird swung into the small parking lot, and Arthur closed his eyes, praying to God that things would go alright.  He sat at a small table in the back, two coffees and some various food stuffs he had let the waitress pick out for him covering the surface.  In truth he didn’t think he could eat.  He drank the coffee out of habit.

His radio crackled softly, and he turned it down even more.  He wasn’t technically working, but was always on call.  Luckily so far for a Saturday night the residents of LA were behaving themselves – but it was only eight pm.  Things usually didn’t get interesting til later.

Arthur shook his head as Lance made his way inside, trying for ‘blend in’ type clothing, but the man never blended no matter what he wore.  A dark turtleneck sweater and sleek pants went perfectly with the dark and expensive boots.  A light smell of cologne wafted to Arthur from where the other man sat; a few memories surfaced but he pushed them away.  “Uh – thanks for coming,” he said at last.  Lance slid his sunglasses off, and set them on the table top, taking a huge gulp of coffee before looking up, and Arthur had to hold back a comment.  Flat, dull dishwater brown eyes met his.  “Couldn’t say no to you ever, Arthur, you know that,” Lance smirked, the expression not making it to his eyes, and he crossed his legs.

They stared at each other for a moment.  “So,” Lance said, looking at his watch, then back at Arthur.  “I’m kind of – pressed for time.  What can I do for you?”

 _That hurt_.

Arthur made his face neutral, cupping his hands around the mug in front of him.  “Well, I just – um, thought I should see you, you know, to see how you’re doing.  It’s been a while.”  Lance's eyebrow went up, and he smiled again, this time a bitter sharp thing that looked ready to tear flesh.  “Really.  My sister had nothing to do with you calling me?  She didn’t give you the really hard to get unlisted number?”  Arthur shrugged, and laughed self consciously.  “Well, uh, I did get it from her, yes, but I just thought –“

“Arthur,” Lance said, cocking his head, the dark, weirdly blank eyes bringing a chill to the back of Arthur's neck.  He hated it.  He hated the lack of life in Lance's mobile face and he hated Gwen so badly right at that moment for her guilting him into doing this, he could taste it.  “Arthur.  I could always see right through you.  You’re a terrible liar.  If you have something to say, then say it.  Otherwise, I need to go.”

Arthur rubbed his temple once, and tried to think of something.  He hadn’t really planned this out; he had tried to think of things to say on the train ride, but in the end had hoped that their familiarity with one another would just take over like it always did.  This man was _not_ his friend.  He didn't know who this man was, and that made him want to lay on the ground and weep for days.  It was - he wet his lips and tried to think, but nothing came.

“Okay, look,” Lance sighed, then stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, one of them pulling his keys out, “I know Gwen put you up to this.  I do love my sister, but as well meaning as she is, she shouldn’t get involved in something she knows nothing about."  He turned his empty eyes on Arthur; Arthur let his gaze meet Lance's, looking for something, anything, a sign, a telltale expression, a look.

Nothing.  Just blank.

"Take care, Arthur.  I’ll see you around.”  He tossed a few bills on the table, and strode out, pushing his glasses back on and roaring off before Arthur could open his mouth, or move.  His head hurt, and he couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he drank more coffee stiffly.  His body was under his control, but his mind?

That had hurt.  Had hurt like nothing ever had.  He could still smell the scent of Lance lingering, the woody, heady aroma of his cologne and his lotion familiar and hated and _fuck_ Arthur was so angry, so angry at himself, and Gwen, and Lance too.  But mostly himself for letting the other man leave without doing what he could have to stop him.  To get rid of that dead expression on his face and in his eyes.  His brown eyes that Arthur knew better than he knew himself.  Arthur heard a weird sob-y noise echoing near him, and it took a few repetitions for him to realize it was coming from his own mouth.  

“Fuck,” he said softly for the umpteenth time since the phone call. 

On the train ride home, Arthur ignored the stares of the other travelers, wiping his face only when he felt the burn of tears drip down his chin to his shirt.

*

As he was putting the key into the lock at the loft, his radio crackled in his ear.

“Captain Castus.”

“Go ahead, dispatch,” he responded, instantly alert.

“Multiple homicides downtown.  Your unit needs you.  Proceed to…” the dispatcher gave him the address, and he mentally noted it as he went inside, pulled on his shoulder rig and thin kevlar vest, sliding his father’s gun into the holster.  Locking the door behind him, he jogged to the small parking area by his loft.  “On the way, dispatch.  ETA maybe ten minutes, barring traffic.”

“Roger that, Captain. Ten minutes.”

The motorcycle started smoothly, and he buckled his helmet, slid the visor down, then zipped away towards the large buildings that glowed in the light from the freeways next to them.

*

The officer that had let Gwen into Arthur’s office the week previous, Dagonet Banson, was waiting for him as he pulled to a stop outside the small office building.  It looked like a normal business, not too large, and was lit by a neon sign announcing the name of the family that ran it, and their hours.  “Captain,” Banson nodded at him as Arthur removed his helmet, sitting it on the seat of his bike.  “Details?” he asked, looking around at the outside of the building, noting the copters that were searching methodically from the air.  Their lights swept over him, blinding momentarily, then were gone. 

“Two men, two women.  All dead and cool by the time we got here.  Obvious execution style murders.”  Arthur followed the other man into the building, and caught the coppery whiff of blood almost immediately.  They crossed through the outer office, which was filled with filing cabinets, computers, and various office supplies – although from the state of them, they wouldn’t be used again – and pushed past the photographer and CSI people doing their jobs.  Arthur tried to breathe through his mouth; the stink of blood and emptied bowels was everywhere.  He took some of the white goop the other man offered him and smeared it under his nose to block the smell.  It helped somewhat.

“Time of death?” he asked.  The medical examiner, a redhead with the unlikely name of Vanora Sanderson, stood as he spoke, and turned to him.  “Captain,” she said by way of greeting, “rigor hasn’t set in yet.  So I’d say an hour, maybe two at the most.  People riding their bicycles by heard rapid gunfire and called it in.”  Arthur shook his head.  “People still ride bikes at night?”  He looked at the mess on the floor, then up at Vanora.  “Cause?”

She put one finger to her temple.  “Two shots through the frontal lobe of each.  Then the torsos were sprayed – either for a statement or to make sure they were dead.  Although using a .38 you usually don’t miss.”

_Oh, shit._

“A .38?  You sure?” he grabbed her arm.  “Did you find anything else?  Any kind of … anything left behind that doesn’t obviously belong in this office?”

“Well,” she said hesitantly.  He stared at her.  “…this may be over analyzing, but we found this near the bodies.  Both the men were missing theirs, so it could belong to either of them.”

She walked with him over to a small table, and held up a bag marked EVIDENCE in large red letters.  He held the thing up to the light, and tried not to react.  “Thank you, ME Sanderson.  Can you contact me if the autopsies find anything new?”

“Of course,” she answered, looking at him curiously, then moved off when he didn’t say anything else.

“Captain?”  Arthur turned bleary eyes on Banson, who was facing him, concern evident in his expression.  "Yes?"  Arthur wanted to berate the other man for daring to interrupt his worry and burgeoning realization, but he tried to smile and plastered a calm look on his face.

“You all right?”  

“Fine.  I’m going outside to speak to the witnesses.  They’re still here, I would expect?”  The officer nodded, and Arthur tucked the evidence bag into his pocket, then made his way out of the room, away from the slippery crimson stuff and the mangled bodies of the victims.  Passing by the officer placed by the door, he asked where the witnesses were.  The man pointed; Arthur confirmed they weren’t going anywhere, then walked a few feet to the edge of the building, and just around the corner.

He let himself shake then.  Squatting down on his haunches, he sunk his head in his hands, breathing deeply, trying to get the stink and the horror out of his body.  The urge to vomit rose without his say so, and he swallowed thickly a few times, the _yes, a .38_ and the _we found this near the bodies_ spiraling through his brain and eating his stomach as he trembled and wanted to throw up the coffee he'd drank earlier.

When he had himself more under control, he stood back up, and pulled the little plastic bag out of his pocket.

EVIDENCE.

One lone cufflink, solid platinum.  A big, shiny “B” on it’s round face.  Arthur remembered the last time he’d seen it, on Lance the night after his father’s funeral.  Not so shiny when touched by a little blood.

“Captain,” someone called, and he rounded the corner, putting the bag away.  “Yes?”

“They’re ready for you to talk to the witnesses now.”

“Thank you, officer.”

His long fingers felt the crispy plastic; so easily lost, so easily dismissed as inconsequential.  He looked up at the sky once, steeled himself, and strode off toward the young couple still hanging onto their bicycles, apprehension in their faces as they watched him approach.

 

_**Well, I wish I could kill you, savor the sight** _

_**Get into my car drive into the night** _

_**Then lie as I scream to the heavens above** _

_**That I was the last one you ever loved** _

 

 


End file.
